After the Storm
by Blenderx
Summary: Something appears to be very wrong with Sherlock when he shows up at Lestrade's doorstep late one stormy evening. Not Slash.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Characters and series not mine, just borrowing them, not making a profit, etc. etc. All in good fun.

(SPOILER ALERT) This sort of takes place between S3 episodes 2 and 3. Within the month after John's wedding, but before he finds him in the drug den. Its a bit AU, however, since I've set this during a colder time of year.

Let me know what you think.

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Its already late, and Greg Lestrade is in his bathroom getting ready to go to bed (_Alone, because the wife has gone to her 'women's book club'._ He knows where she really is, but can't bring himself to think directly on it. _She won't be back tonight, I know that. She'll tell me tomorrow she and her lady friends had a bit too much fun during their discussion, along with a bit too much wine, so she stayed over in Lucille's guest room for the night. She'll have showered there, too._ He's already helped himself to an extra pint at the pub before coming home to his dark, empty house.). He's brushing his teeth when he's startled by a couple of weak knocks on his front door.

"Who the 'ell could that be?" He mutters and spits the toothpaste from his mouth into the sink. Outside, he hears the crash of thunder in the sky and relentlessly heavy rain hitting the roof. Its been the devil out all day. He'll be lucky if he doesn't end up with a cold after having spent a good portion of his day out in it, at a murder scene over by the river. (Pointless as that was. All the evidence was long washed away and it was clear the man hadn't even been killed there besides... He might have to bring Sherlock in on this one, but he wanted to give his own team a solid shot at it first..._ So who'd be out in this weather, then? And at this hour?_)

He can't see much of anything through the spy-hole, except for a dark figure huddled close to the door, sheltering from the storm. He opens it cautiously as another heavy burst of thunder rattles the neighborhood and is more than a little surprised to see a sopping wet Sherlock-bloody-Holmes standing there. He's only been to Greg's place once before, and he broke in that time. (_The bastard. Could've just knocked then too, I was home and damned if he didn't know it, but he's always got to do things his own way, doesn't he? Lucky I didn't arrest him. _He's always had a bit too much patience for the younger man. More than maybe was good for either of them, he couldn't help thinking sometimes_._)

"Sherlock? What're you doing here?" He doesn't answer, doesn't even look at him. Its dim, but Greg can see the tremors in his shoulders and his arms, which are folded tightly over his chest, so he sighs, and opens the door wide, gesturing for him to- "Come on in then, before you freeze to death."

But the consultant detective doesn't move, not for a minute, anyway. Just stands there, dripping. Then it seems to click and he begins to, painfully slow, make his way inside, still not making eye contact.

"So! To what do I owe the pleasure?" He asks with as much cheer as he can muster after a long and miserable day, but Sherlock only remains still, and silent, his body turned away from him. Greg's smile falters and he blinks in confusion. He knows the reclusive detective doesn't like to be touched, but he can't help now reaching for his arm, and gently turning him so they're facing each other. (Something is really not right here. But what? Oh. _ Could he actually be _stupid_ enough to have gone back on the-? And then show up on _MY_ doorstep?_)

"Sherlock? Are you _high_?" This gets a vaguely startled reaction, at least, and Sherlock is shaking his head mildly to indicate 'no', finally removing his gaze from the floor to look up at him through a drapery of wet curls, before lowering it again. His eyes are bloodshot, but otherwise normal, and instinct tells Lestrade that he's being truthful in this. He knows a Sherlock under the influence, and this isn't quite it.

"Its late and I haven't got the energy for twenty questions, so you wanna tell me what you're doing here, or are you just going to continue standing there, making puddles on my floor?" Sherlock opens his mouth, seems to hesitate, then shuts it again, swallowing down whatever it was he might've said. He just stands there shivering pitifully until Greg can't take it any longer. (_Whatever this is, I don't like it._)

He clasps his hands together. "Right then. Take off your coat and I'll go grab some towels so you can dry off a bit, yeah?"

He walks away to retrieve the towels, shaking his head, and trying to shake off the sinking feeling currently making its home in his gut. After a couple of years grieving and regretting the man's (who he does consider in a strange kind of a way, a friend) death, its hard not to feel a bit... _protective?_ at times, now that he's back with them, (_Bit pissed as well_, _putting us all on like that and for so long. but mostly... yeah, its just good have him around again. In small doses, _he thinks wryly.), but he doesn't want to make something out of what is probably nothing, either.

TBC

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	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

With a couple of towels in his arms, Lestrade makes his way back into the living room, where he expects Sherlock to have wandered into by now, but its empty, so he makes his way back over to the entryway where he does find him, still standing there hunched over in the alcove, still in his Belstaff, and he doesn't seem to have moved at all, except to allow his arms to drop to his sides, where they hang limply now, droplets of water making their way slowly down to his fingertips where they fall to the now-sizable puddle on his tiled floor.

He stands there for a moment, brow furrowed, trying to make heads or tales of whatever is going on with the lanky detective, until he settles on quietly offering-

"Let me help you with that." And he's put down the towels to help Sherlock in removing his great coat. Its waterproof, he knows, as he hangs it up on the stand next to them, but he's still managed to soak himself through to the bone. Greg proceeds to carefully unwrap the omnipresent scarf, which is heavy and stiff now with icy rainwater, from around his neck, and drapes a towel over his shoulders. Sherlock makes no effort to assist in any of this. Hardly seems to be aware of anything at all.

Suddenly it occurs to him, and he could've kicked himself for not realizing it sooner, as it sends an icicle through his own core:

"Sherlock, are you injured? Has something happened?" He asks urgently, adding, "Do you know where John is?" (_Because you hardly ever see one without the other, do you? So if something's happened to the one, it's a good bet the other's been involved as well._) He tries to catch his gaze, but he remains unresponsive, except to incline his head almost imperceptibly toward him, teeth chattering. Its a good bet (_because marriage changes things, doesn't it? For some people, anyway._) that John Watson is safe at home with his lovely new wife (_or perhaps still on their honeymoon? Italy, I think it was?_), but there's still the matter of Sherlock himself, showing up at his doorstep, late in the evening, apparently having spent quite some time in this nasty downpour happening outside, shivering and semi-catatonic (which, its not _unusual_ for the eccentric genius to go semi-catatonic when deep in thought during a tough case, not acknowledging anyone or anything around him for hours at a go, he's seen that more than a couple of times, but this is somehow... different. There's something disturbing (_and not in the usual, 'could he actually be a psychopath?' sort of way_) in the shadows of his face that Lestrade can't quite put his finger on.).

"Sherlock? _Sherlock_? I really need to know this. Are you injured?" He's clearly enunciating each word now, the way he would to a trauma victim on the job (and its disconcerting to find himself having to speak to his friend this way at all), and finally, _finally_, Sherlock jerks his head in the negative. Greg lets out the breathe he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Okay. I'm just going to check you over anyway, just to be _sure_, alright?" Sherlock blinks torpidly in his direction.

He flips a nearby switch to turn on the floodlight in the high ceiling above them, so he can see what he needs to see, and is immediately struck by how bad the younger detective (who is wincing in the sudden light, and lowers his head even more) looks. He's shivering violently, breathes coming in short bursts and his lips have taken on a bluish hue. (_Need to get you dry and warmed up sooner rather than later, _He realizes grimly._ This was not a night to be out enjoying the weather with a leisurely stroll. First thing's first, however._)

Taking a quick, fortifying breathe, he begins by carefully examining his head for any sign of injury, fully expecting to find something, anything which would explain all of this. But there's no sign of any bumps or bleeding in the wet locks, or on his forehead. No cuts or bruising or anything of the sort on what he can see of his face to indicate he'd been in an accident or altercation of some kind, either.

"Let's get this off, yeah?" and without waiting for Sherlock to make a movement, he begins peeling off his sopping wet suit jacket and sets it aside. "Shirt too, alright?" He's relieved to see Sherlock begin to make some effort now at undoing the buttons himself, but his trembling hands are slow and clumsy, so Greg bats them away after a moment to quickly unbutton and peel that off as well.

Finding no sign of injury to his now bare (except for the towel still draped over his shoulders) torso either (So damned skinny, though, you could count all his ribs._ Is he even eating?)_, Lestrade reaches for another towel and- "Sorry 'bout this." rubs it vigorously over Sherlock's head, getting most of the wet out of his hair, leaving the curls sticking out wildly every which way. Lestrade allows himself a smirk at the somewhat shell-shocked look on Sherlock's face when he's done.

It falls away quickly, however, as he watches Sherlock sway where he stands. "Right. You're half frozen. So it'll be off with the rest of that and I'll go find something dry for you to put on." He picks up one of Sherlock's arms and and places the towel in a limp hand. "Dry yourself off some more." He waits until, very slowly, the command seems to reach the consultant's brain, and he begins to drag the towel along his chest and arms.

Sherlock looks at him out of the corner of his eyes and Greg, still not knowing what to make of everything he sees in them, gives his arm a steadying squeeze, before heading back down the hall. He grabs his phone off of the kitchen counter as he passes it, and, after a quick search through his contacts, texts John Watson:

'Have u seen Sherlock today? Everything alright? -GL'.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

ch. 3

Lestrade starts to wonder if he isn't in over head here somehow, as he gathers some warm clothes to replace Sherlock's ruined suit, and if he shouldn't just take him straight to A&E. But he knows he would hate that (_Not that I always care what Sherlock Holmes would or would not like. That'd be the day!_), and besides, apart from being somewhat hypothermic, there isn't any obvious sign of injury. So _no_, he decides, he'll do what he can for him himself, here, and maybe after he gets a hot cuppa in him he'll be more to himself enough so he can tell him what he was doing out in the rain to begin with, and why he'd landed at his doorstep.

As he grabs the last of it, his mobile chirps to alert him to a new text message. It's John's reply:

JW: Not seen him since the wedding, just settling back in from the honeymoon. As far as I know everything is fine. What's up?

Well, that answers that.

'He's actually here with me. Nothing to bother you with. Give my love to Mary. -GL'

He heads back to the entryway to find Sherlock more or less as he'd left him, only his eyes are shut now as he clutches the towel around his shoulders.

"Alright, not quite up to your usual standards, and you'll be swimming in these, but they're comfortable and best of all, _dry_."

No response, so Greg reaches for his arm, but the instant he makes contact, Sherlock's eyes shoot open and he stumbles backward, tripping on the coat stand behind him. In his apparent panic, he resists Greg's attempts to steady him, before he falls in a heap to the floor, kicking his legs to leverage himself as far away as he can manage, until he's backed up into the corner, and all Lestrade can do is to keep the heavy stand from falling on top of him.

"Whoa, _whoa_.Sherlock, its me. Greg. I'm not going to hurt you." Sherlock is shaking his head 'no' weakly and looking at him with wide eyes (_Except he's not really seeing me, is he?_), and he can only just hear him pleading in a small voice but it doesn't sound like English? If he had to say, he'd guess it was something Eastern European.

"Sherlock? Sherlock. Its alright. Its Lestrade. You're at my house." He watches him with a mixture of confusion and sadness. This is so far from anything that would be considered normal for the consultant detective that at the moment he thinks he'd very much rather be on the receiving end of one of Sherlock's abrasive tirades than to be listening to..._this_.

But the energy behind his panic is fading quickly, pleas dying down to a shivering, faint whisper, so Lestrade begins to inch nearer, talking all the while:

"It's just me, Greg. Sherlock? You're very cold right now. It's alright. Let me help you. Its Greg Lestrade. I'm going to help you."

Sherlock blinks slowly and seems to return again to his senses, if only a little. He nods his head weakly, looking even more tired and haunted.

"Cold," he breathes out.

"Yeah." He offers agreeably. "I've got some warm clothes for you right here. We need to get all those wet ones off of you."

Sherlock is nodding distantly.

With some effort (and a bit of awkwardness, which, owing not a little to his current state, Sherlock didn't seem to be much aware of), he manages to get him into some dry clothes. He was right, Greg's sweater and old tracksuit bottoms are large on the thin detective. He looks all too young in the over-sized garments.

"Come on now, up off the floor" His muscles groan as he lifts himself and reaches down to help Sherlock stand, barely (he nearly falls once, and Greg just barely manages to catch him and keep him on his feet), and cautiously guides him to the wide, overstuffed chair near the gas fireplace, which comes to life at the flick of a switch. He tosses a blanket over the still shivering man's shoulders, satisfied that he's on his way to being warmed up and heads to the kitchen to put on the kettle and make a sandwich (_he's too skinny..._).

While he works, he contemplates the usefulness of calling Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's shadowy and powerful older brother, but decides that might cause more problems than it solves.

At that moment he hears what he assumes to be Sherlock's mobile, which he finds still in his coat pocket in the entryway. He only hesitates a moment before swiping the screen to look at his messages, hoping to get some clues as to what's happened to Sherlock this evening.

The new alerts are a series of pictures from a contact merely labelled 'Fifty-Three' which feature a thin, balding man making his way from a chauffeured black car into a well-lit building. He has no idea what use this could be.

Checking through his other messages for more clues, he comes across several between Sherlock and Mycroft, but these are old, and don't shed a lot of light (except on the level of dysfunction in their relationship):

MH: This is what sentiment gets you, Sherlock. Remember Redbeard?

SH: Shut. Up. Mycroft.

MH: Don't be so childish, little brother.

and a week or so later:

MH: Have you given it some thought?

SH: No, because the matter is entirely dependent on YOU.

MH: It is definitely NOT and if you could ever be bothered to PAY ATTENTION you should have realized that already.

SH: Oh why don't u go eat another slice of cake, dear brother, or are you still on that diet of yours? You were half a stone heavier last we saw each other.

There are also more pictures, again from contacts labelled numerically: Of a rubbish bin, of a derelict building, and of a woman with dark hair and professional attire.

There's a text from Sherlock to Lestrade himself, from 4 days ago:

SH: The Piatkowski case, in today's Guardian, pg 2. Clearly the brother-in-law, they were having an affair. Obvious because of the watch he is wearing.

He'd been right, of course, and after a little digging on Scotland Yard's part to confirm the connections, an arrest was made. It never ceased to impress him what Sherlock could do.

Finally, some texts from John:

JW: Leave me alone, I'm on my honeymoon. See you soon.

JW: And be good to Mrs. Hudson. She told me about the experiment in the cupboard.

JW: We got in last night. Expected to see you. Want to meet up? I could bring over some of Mary's curry.

JW: Sherlock?

JW: ?

There's no reply from Sherlock.

Greg turns off the mobile, and finishes up the tea.

TBC


End file.
